Baffin Island, Part 3
The best thing you can do is be prepared
Hello everyone!
This is part 3 of my Baffin Island series. If you haven’t read the first two essays, I suggest you go back and check them out before diving into this one. The next in this series goes live every two days. So be on the lookout this Wednesday, Friday and beyond for more Arctic adventure.
Thanks a bunch!
The flight to Qikiqtarjuaq is the only one I’ve ever taken that didn’t start with a pre-flight security check. We just walk into the Iqaluit airport, check our bags, and head straight to the gate. Though there are only sixteen seats on the dual propeller plane, I wonder how many of my fellow passengers are traveling with guns. Such an American concern, I think to myself. Always worried about who has the goddamned guns…because someone always does.
The first leg is to Pangnirtung—a hamlet just south of the Arctic Circle where we’ll end our hike. My stomach churns increasingly as the plane fights thick clouds towards the gaping fjord, then swoops a 180° turn to approach the runway against a headwind. We touch down before I need the barf bag, but I’m as close to grabbing it as I’ve ever been.
All passengers deplane via a set of rickety tarmac stairs while airport workers open the plane’s side doors to empty its load of freight. Nobody seems in a rush to remove the myriad crates of this and that, which includes coolers of groceries, flat screen TVs, and Amazon parcels. Smiling faces of loved ones peer anxiously through the runway-facing window of the airport’s one room building. “That’s a photo,” Kent says, discreetly pointing to the scene. He’s always had a keen eye for composition.
All continuing passengers, among whom we look to be the only non-indigenous, wait in the cold building until the plane is ready to embark. I explore the small space, stopping to give my attention to a poster advertising our ultimate destination, Auyuittuk National Park, and another advising against feeding polar bears. As we exit the building to reboard, Kent points north towards a snow dusted range of ominous mountains that tears into the sky. “That’s our pass,” he says. “That’s where we’ll come out in twelve days.” “Yeah,” I say. “As long as we don’t die.”
For the past couple years, mostly since my father’s death in early 2023, I’ve been thinking a lot about death. Prepping for this trip only exacerbated my new tendency to contemplate the fact that one of the last people between me and my final demise is no longer here. I’ve lost my blocker, which means I am next. And the fact that I am heading to this place of extremes—where weather kills as readily as hungry mammals—this summer trip to the Arctic may very well be my last.
Before leaving home I emailed my dear friend Katie the sorts of documents that would have made my father’s passing easier for those of us left behind. I also sent her a makeshift will that explains what folks should do with my body and personal effects in the event of my untimely death. It says:
I am to be cremated. If my family desires, my remains will be buried at no cost in a VA cemetery of their choosing. I am also OK with not being interred in the ground and simply disposed of. Ashes are ashes, they are not me. If there is to be a memorial service, it should be done with no financial hardship or excess. Death is yet another beginning. I did my best to live big. If you want to honor my life, please do what must be done to live big for yourself.
It’s overcast in Qikiqtarjuaq as we touch down, and the air is noticeably cooler. As I walk to the pile of luggage to retrieve my pack, my left knee buckles. I catch myself before I fall, but am struck by the irony of the minor mishap. Irony because it was my right foot that was problematic for six months leading up to this adventure. A “subluxed cuboid” is what my podiatrist called it. An inexplicable dislocation of the farthest lateral bone in my right midfoot. Its displacement is responsible for sidelining me so severely that I figured it marked my new reality—hereafter I’d walk with a limp, unhurried, and for only short distances. But the doc assured me the mysterious condition would get better. And it did, albeit slowly. So slowly that at one point I nearly pulled out of this trip. Took all my courage to share the bad news with Kent. “Hey man,” I said. “I may need to rethink things…” But the doc was right, and now it’s my left foot that’s wreaking havoc. And as soon as we arrive in Qik. Figures.
We catch a ride to Tulugak Inns North, a double-wide trailer motel on an unnamed road that dead ends in Broughton Channel. It’s got a handful of small rooms and a well-lit dining area that offers daily specials. An whiteboard near the check-in desk exclaims, “Chicken Poutine!” and I have to ask what it is—a pile of fries topped with brown gravy, melted cheese curds, and miniature chicken nuggets. There’s also a note in red dry-erase that says, “no bread, no milk, no fish,” with a sad face adjacent. I’m most intrigued by another one that says, in big blue caps, “CHOCOLATE CAKE.”
After dropping our bags, we head to the Parks Canada Office for a one o’clock appointment. The office is closed for lunch and we’re a little early, so we sit on the front steps and wait. An Inuit child joins us and gives us a once over. “What is that?” she says, pointing at a tattoo on my hand. “It’s a wasp,” I say. “Like a bee.” She looks at me, then at Kent, then she slowly touches my wrist. “Lots of hair,” she says, and I crack up. Kent points at me and says, “He’s like a monkey,” which is what someone, actually multiple people, said to me during our 2004 trip to Southeast Asia.
The Park employees return from lunch and let us in. We pay the entrance fee—$231.50 CAD for an annual pass—which is cheaper than buying a daily pass for $33.25/day. We mention that we plan to enter Auyuittuk tomorrow and there seems to be some confusion. Park employee Sammy excuses himself to call Billy, our boat shuttle driver, to sort things out. A few minutes later he reports back. “Billy’s going to pick you up tonight, not tomorrow,” Sammy says. “You’ll spend the night at his camp and he’ll bring you to the Pass tomorrow." I tell Sammy we’ve already checked into the Inn, which is to say we’ve already shelled out $350.00 CAD each for a one night stay according to Billy’s previously confirmed plan. “That’s not my problem,” Sammy says with a smile. I suppose he’s right. It surely isn’t his problem.
Another Park employee, Abigail, then invites us to the main room where for 90-minutes she somberly reads an array of redundant powerpoint slides before leaving us to watch a 20-minute polar bear safety video. The narrator of the video keeps saying, “The best thing you can do is be prepared,” which frustrates me since they never really say how to be prepared. Watching the video likely absolves the Parks Office of any liability resulting from our indiscretions. But frankly, it teaches me nothing.
Before departing the office, Sammy offers us an official bear safety kit—a ~5 lb. hard case containing a spray canister and a flare gun with two types of cartridges, bangers and screamers. The kit is free to borrow provided we return it to the Parks office in Pangnirtung when we’re done. Kent doesn’t have room in his pack—and I damn sure don’t want to add another five pounds to mine. We decline at first. Odds are slim we’ll encounter a bear, let alone be inclined to take defensive measures. “No thanks,” I say to Sammy, shrugs his shoulders and says, “Aren’t you afraid of bears?”“OK then,” I say with a huff. “I guess I can squeeze it in my pack.”
Though it eases my mind to have something to deploy if we encounter a polar bear, the kit is no more than a distraction I’d likely fumble and scream at before enduring a furry haymaker from a foot-wide paw. It’s funny the things that make us comfortable even if we know they are safety placebos.
When we’re about to leave, Billy enters the office. We exchange greetings and he asks if we’ve already checked into the hotel. He says he’s working on a plan. “There are people coming in tomorrow afternoon and I may wait to bring you all into the park together,” he says. Kent and I don’t like this plan one bit. We don’t want to be dropped off with a big party. We want solitude. “But they may be delayed,” Billy says, “and if so, maybe we’ll leave beforehand.”
Billy tells us he’ll let us know tomorrow how things will shake out. “Is there a time we ought to look for you,” I ask, hoping we can build our day’s schedule around his update. “No,” he says. “I’ll come find you.” I ask him when. “Don’t worry,” he says as he puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be there.”
Nice Tom. Your essays will make me remember things I would have otherwise forgotten. And I think that’s at least the third time I’ve heard someone confirm that you are indeed hairy.